In this blog post, we will examine how Oh Gyeong-jae’s ‘The Scholars’ bitingly satirized the corruption and contradictions of the Qing Dynasty’s intellectual community, and how this work has been reevaluated by academic circles in China and Korea.

Introduction

‘Rulin Waishi’ is considered one of the six masterpieces representing Chinese classical fiction, alongside the Four Great Classics of the Ming Dynasty and the Qing Dynasty’s ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’. Among these, ‘Rulin Waishi’ stands out from the others in that the author’s identity is relatively certain and the story is set within the society of the literati and scholars. It garnered particular attention when influential modern writers such as Lu Xun praised it as the finest satirical novel among Chinese classical fiction. However, due to the unique political circumstances in China from the 1930s through the mid-1970s, domestic interest in the work was limited; even the few studies that were conducted were often mired in political logic, failing to provide a comprehensive examination of the work’s literary merit or resulting in distorted evaluations. Instead, it was the English translation (The Scholars), first published in Beijing in 1957, that sparked interest among scholars in the English-speaking world.
Within China, research on this work and its author, Wu Jingzhai, has been active since the early 1980s, yielding significant results. However, research to date has primarily focused on text-centered exploratory work—such as textual variants, the author’s life, and the correspondence between the work’s content and his actual life—while substantive discussions on the work’s artistic merit have only gradually begun relatively recently.
The author, Wu Jingzi (吳敬梓, 1702–1754), lived during the reigns of the Kangxi, Yongzheng, and Qianlong emperors. Although this period enjoyed outward prosperity due to the development of urban economies and markets, politically it was marked by ethnic conflicts, factional strife, and deep-seated corruption within the bureaucracy under a powerful autocratic monarch. Furthermore, large-scale compilation projects led by the imperial court institutionalized a Confucian philosophy that was academic and hypocritical, while achievements in the natural sciences continued to develop despite being ignored by the upper-class literati. Above all, it was a period in which the regime simultaneously co-opted and suppressed the intellectual class through the imperial examination system—using measures such as literary inquisitions and the “Examination of Exaggeration”—while drawing them into the institutional framework. Oh Gyeong-jae received a Confucian education in a relatively affluent family and prepared for the imperial examinations, but after enduring hardships—including family misfortunes, repeated failures in the examinations, and the death of his wife—he left his hometown at the age of 33 and moved to Nanjing. At the age of 36, he was recommended by Park Hak-hong for the civil service examination, but was unable to participate in the regular session due to illness. He spent his days socializing in Nanjing until he lost the remaining assets he had while the Seonhyeon Temple was being repaired; thereafter, he wandered in poverty and eventually died in Yangzhou. ‘Yurim Oesa’ is an autobiographical masterpiece in which he critically examined the nature of a corrupt intellectual society based on the misfortunes and experiences he endured after moving to Nanjing, and artistically rendered them through a decade of effort.

Themes of ‘Yulin Oesa’

Traditionally, the Four Great Classical Novels were a body of works refined and disseminated through collective effort and transmission, rather than being the exclusive property of a specific “author.” These works collectively embody the ideals and self-reflection of the emerging intellectual class that rose to prominence during the Ming Dynasty. In other words, the Four Great Classical Novels served as a literary arena jointly developed by the newly emerged intellectuals for intellectual amusement and challenge; in this process, the populist elements inherent in the works—with the exception of ‘The Golden Lotus’—were sometimes diluted or transformed to align with the demands of the emerging intellectuals. The level of intellectual depth tends to shift from the universal to the concrete, and from the external to the internal, as one moves from ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’ to ‘Journey to the West’, ‘Water Margin’, and ‘The Plum in the Golden Vase’.
Although the “author-work-reader” literary system gradually took shape during the Qing Dynasty, the authors who left behind immortal works such as ‘The Outlying Scholars’ and ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’ were, in fact, far removed from commercial mechanisms. Until the literary revolution in the late Qing Dynasty gained momentum, novels and plays in China were in competition with poetry and prose, and the traditional mindset of literati scholars made it difficult to easily reconcile literary integrity with commercial interests. As a result, even as fiction became more literati-oriented and its artistic standards rose, writers such as Wu Jingzhai and Cao Xueqin approached their creative work with little regard for commercial interests.
Although the story of ‘Yulin Waishi’ is set in the Ming Dynasty, it is well known that the work actually serves as a literary dissection and satire of Qing Dynasty intellectual society. Wu Jingzhai directly exposes an intellectual society facing corruption and collapse, artistically dissecting the various pathological factors born of this historical tragedy and displaying them across 55 chapters like a vast “natural history museum.”
Traditionally, the definition of the intellectual (shi), originating with Confucius, has been defined by three main aspects. First is the moral aspect: one must always keep one’s mind focused on the “Dao” (Way) as the foundation for conscience and the social standard for conduct. Zhu Xi defined “Dao” as what ought to be practiced in human relations and daily life, viewing it as a concrete ethical norm distinct from the concept of abstract truth. Second is the intellectual aspect: based on objective and rational reason, one must correctly judge right from wrong and accurately discern the trends of history. Third is the aspect of conduct: the ideal that one must be able to act freely, free from subordination to any specific political power, much like the itinerant scholars of the Warring States period. Although the meaning of this third condition changed over time with the establishment of unified dynasties, the attitude hoping that intellectuals remain free from political power—as exemplified by Gao Yanwu’s declaration that “intellectuals have no fixed master”—has essentially persisted.
However, their unrealistic self-portrait—in which they depicted themselves floating in a state of ideal freedom while denying the fact that human life, as a “social being,” is inevitably intertwined with the interests of the external world—contained a logical contradiction. As beings with a weighty mission to “govern the world and save the people” and a long road ahead, their “Dao” was of a nature that could not be realized without direct participation in practical politics. Furthermore, from the emperor’s perspective, those who invoked the “Dao” to follow the “Mandate of Heaven” could be viewed as superfluous beings who deserved to be suppressed at any time. Consequently, deprived even of the opportunity to judge and choose whether the monarch and the nation’s ethos aligned with the “Dao,” the intellectuals had no choice but to make an inevitable decision. Consequently, by casting aside martial prowess (武) and cultivating virtue (德) to rely on power, they ended up reduced to the status of so-called “dogs of the nobleman,” whose circumstances fluctuated according to the monarch’s moods.
In fact, even during periods like the Warring States era, when the tradition of “cultivating scholars” flourished, Confucian intellectuals were destined to be nurtured by someone else anyway. Unfortunately, even when they became servants of the imperial regime, they failed to fundamentally question that fate and did not even dream of ways to overcome it. Instead, they adopted a sort of “mental victory strategy,” rationalizing their actions by claiming to cultivate a spirit of “magnanimity” while sustaining their bodies with food provided by the emperor, and thus “adapted” to the changes. However, this adaptation ultimately led to the gradual secularization of the nature of the “Dao” that was deeply ingrained in the minds of the majority of intellectuals.
Ironically, the fact that they promoted a nominal “Dao” for the sake of power and profit under the autocratic rule of a unified state—and, to that end, shackled the entire intellectual community with the chains of classical texts and the imperial examination system—also served as a protective shield for the transmission of traditional culture. Unlike in their own era, in subsequent periods, Confucian classics—particularly the Four Books and Three Classics—became firmly established as exam preparation materials, greatly restricting the scope of thought permitted to intellectuals. These constraints likely align with the historical background that led Confucianism to sink into abstract metaphysical speculation after the Southern Song Dynasty. However, because the texts themselves still existed, the fundamental spirit of early Confucianism remained between the lines; thanks to this, there remained room—albeit faint—for the revival of the critical spirit exemplified by scholars like Yi Ji and Donglimdang, who exposed the hypocrisy behind the distorted “Dao,” as well as the Four Great Scholars of the late Ming and early Qing periods.
Nevertheless, due to the distortion of tradition brought about by changing times, the majority of the intellectual community—with the exception of a small number of “awake intellectuals”—had already become fundamentally different from their counterparts in the Six Dynasties period. To put it simply, while the intellectuals of the Six Dynasties period, grounded in deep and broad scholarly and personal cultivation, agonized over ways to cope with turbulent times, Qing Dynasty intellectuals—their spirits impoverished by the “Eight Classics”—often idly indulged in the prosperity of the age. Above all, while the intellectuals of the Six Dynasties period were generally from aristocratic lineages and enjoyed a certain degree of economic comfort, Qing Dynasty intellectuals had largely become commoners and were plagued by immediate livelihood concerns. However, by habitually turning a blind eye to these changing circumstances, Qing Dynasty intellectuals gave rise to yet another form of hypocrisy. While ignoring financial realities, they sought to preserve traditions such as poetry gatherings, thereby mass-producing “fake intellectuals” who adorned themselves with a false sense of nostalgia, with a disconnect between their professed principles and their actual lives.
All these ills ultimately led, by the time of Oh Gyeong-jae, to a situation where the intellectual class was nominally Confucian but not in substance, and nominally “literati” yet lacking any actual ability to write or create. Having lost the ability to drive social change and development, they were lumped together into a distorted group, and it was precisely for this reason that Oh Gyeong-jae had no choice but to write an “alternative history” (Oesa) rather than an “official history” (Jeongsa).
The types of “intellectuals” featured in ‘Yurim Oesa’ can be broadly summarized into four categories: those who revered the Eight Classic Prose Works, the “fake scholars,” the sages, and the eccentrics. First, the “Eight Classics” school is further divided into two branches: those who actually passed the civil service examinations, such as Ju Jin, Beom Jin, No Pyeonsu, Go Han-rim, and Wang Hye; and those who, though they failed the examinations, promoted the “Eight Classics” through anthologies of poetry and prose, such as Ma Jeong, So Jeong, and Gye Yeom-il. While all of them blindly adhere to the doctrine of the “all-powerful” Palgo style, their arguments ultimately amount to nothing more than insisting that passing the civil service examination is the only and best path.
Those who had drained their souls and intellects on the Palgo style were inevitably reduced to nothing more than incompetent lackeys loyal to the emperor, even if they had passed the examination. Moreover, those who sold even their moral conscience for the sake of career advancement lost their sense of mission as intellectuals. On the other hand, some—recharged by greed and corruption—were even praised by the imperial family and the court as capable officials. As the proverb goes, “Where there is a policy from above, there is a countermeasure from below”; these individuals skillfully colluded with one another to secure vested interests, becoming the key players in entrenching corruption within the bureaucratic system. Thus, the civil service examination system, which emphasized the “Eight-Character Essay,” stood as a testament to the contradiction that “those who are trained are useless, and those who are actually employed are not the ones trained through the system.”
Next, the so-called “fake scholars” are figures like Gyeong Bon-hye, Jo Gyeol, Gye Chu, Du Cheon, and the Nu brothers—those who pursued fame through poetry and leisure while parasitizing a corrupt society. Figures like Gye Chu, who gets by on improvisation without any real talent; Du Cheon, who struts about pursuing only his own interests; and Gyeong Bon-hye, who acts superior among salon literati with trivial skills that can be learned overnight—these are, strictly speaking, idlers who contribute nothing to society. They squander their time on unproductive idle chatter, pursuing the wealth, honor, and fame they have failed to attain in reality through self-justification, while merely feigning detachment from the world.

A Portrait of Intellectuals in ‘Yurim Oesa’

However, while the “Palgosa” and the “fake intellectuals” may take different paths, they share a commonality in that their ultimate goals are real-world power and material gain. Moreover, they are trapped in a perverted worldview in which they distort the cultural traditions of true intellectuals, pursue hypocritical legitimacy, and treat this as their creed. Therefore, they are all nothing more than “surplus humans” in the negative sense—products of irrational institutions and traditions that have been corrupted by the times.
In contrast to them, the sages who truly upheld the teachings of early Confucianism [such as Yu Yude (虞育德), Zhang Shangzhi (莊尙志), Chi Jun (遲均), Wang Yun (王蘊), etc.], as well as eccentrics [such as Du Yi (杜儀), etc.] who upheld the spirit of early Confucianism with strong individuality and a self-respecting attitude, were inevitably branded as fools or “madmen”; thus, they struggled in despair and were ultimately forced to scatter in all directions.
The so-called sages who “cultivated and practiced noble scholarship while observing the times to judge when to enter and when to withdraw from official service (wen-xing-chu-chu),” sages and eccentrics who believed in and practiced the promotion of ritual and music (禮樂) and the governance strategy of “the unity of soldiers and farmers (兵農一致)” criticized the academic culture of their era—which was dominated by a careerism centered on passing the civil service examinations—and denounced the hypocrisy of pseudo-intellectuals. While pursuing the “Dao,” the true goal of intellectuals, they stood against the prevailing trends biased toward power and self-interest.
However, their lonely struggle—symbolized by the rituals at Taebaek Shrine—is nothing more than a final requiem for the fading traditions of ritual and music. Xiao Cai, who devotes himself to building fortifications on the frontier and cultivating a populace that embodies the principle of “the unity of military and agricultural service,” is ultimately abandoned by the court. He is a tragic victim of reality, as depicted in the saying: “When falsehood becomes truth, truth itself becomes falsehood; where nothingness becomes existence, existence itself becomes nothingness (Dream of the Red Chamber, Chapter 1: “When falsehood becomes truth, truth too becomes false; where nothingness becomes existence, existence becomes nothingness”)—a tragic scapegoat of reality.
Wu Yude, who remained “true” even in the minutiae of daily life through her rational intellect, desireless heart, and refined demeanor, must leave the Taibai Temple—now crumbling under a layer of dust—behind and depart for Zhejiang in solitude. Wang Wen, a principled man who had forced his own daughter to preserve her chastity through death, weeps pitifully before the ruins of Taebaek Temple. Their pitiful departure symbolizes the historical fate of an era in which the tradition of intellectual culture, rooted in ritual and music, can never be revived.
What is important here is the fact that the tragic departures of these sages and eccentrics cannot simply be adorned with tragic beauty or sublime idealization. This is because their struggles always took place solely on a personal and internal level and never rose to become a force capable of altering the course of society.
Even in the case of Jang Sang-ji—who, among those classified as sages, led the most uneventful life—he simply devoted himself to writing works in which “every character has a history” (字字有來歷), expressing gratitude for the emperor’s grace regardless of reality. Of course, there were also those like Ji Gyun—who, despite being the first to propose the Taebaeksa memorial service, ceded the position of representative to Woo Yuk-deok and devoted himself to the practical work—who sought to contribute to politics and education by personally practicing the principle of “cultivating oneself, harmonizing the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world.”
However, due to a system that refused to grant official positions to such individuals (or because their applications were rejected), they were forced to “drift” on the periphery of intellectual society for their entire lives. Consequently, to put it bluntly from a slightly different perspective, while their values differed, their actual behavior in reality outwardly matched that of the “fake intellectuals.” Of course, although the degree of negativity may have been less than in the cases of the “Palgosa” or the “fake intellectuals,” from a social standpoint, they were no different from “surplus humans.” The only thing that distinguishes them is the degree of their “morality.”
Viewed in this light, the theme of ‘Yurim Oesa’ is a critique of the social system that forces intellectuals to lose their inherent aspirations and social functionality, leaving them no choice but to become “surplus humans.” Furthermore, it exposes the reality of individual intellectuals who either fail to even recognize their own alienation or, despite their anger, are unable to find a remedy, leading them to live tragic lives before fading away helplessly. However, this criticism and exposure amount to nothing more than cynical satire masking a helplessness devoid of alternatives, or an accusation made from the vantage point of a bystander.

Oh Gyeong-jae’s Perspective and Characterization

The notion that every work must possess a clear and wholesome direction and conclusion is merely another ideal imposed by rigid Socialist Realism. However, at least from that perspective, it is regrettable that Do-ui—a character described in many ways as a projection of the author himself—belongs to the category of “eccentrics” among the intellectuals described earlier. This is because, although an “eccentric” is a being who finds spiritual support in “the philosophy of the mind” and is impassioned enough to shout “No!”, he is fundamentally nothing more than a lonely, intermediary figure incapable of achieving anything beyond that.
However, considering not only Oh Gyeong-jae’s own life but also acknowledging that the most significant significance of ‘Yurim Oesa’ lies in presenting the reality of the deep-rooted “disease” prevalent in intellectual society in a figurative—rather than “rational”—manner, one cannot help but agree that this characterization is, in fact, the most exquisite and objective.
While admiring the logical arguments of the sages—who analyze the merits and demerits of history and point the way forward—Oh Gyeong-jae, acknowledging his own shortcomings, had no choice but to adopt the approach of an “Oe-sa” (External History). His true nature is that of an objective observer who, though he may assert, “This is not right!” lacks the practical power to alter the current of the times sweeping him along. Within Oh Gyeong-jae’s system of thought—a blend of emotional, inward contemplation and rational, outward observation—there was fundamentally no room for Hwang Jong-hui’s lucid, logical arguments.
Above all, the most apt satire on life is to reveal life itself. Therefore, the true theme of ‘Yurim Oesa’ is not an indictment of a corrupt and decadent reality, but rather the desperate struggle of an awakened intellect that resists within that reality while agonizing over its inability to find a “correct” way out. And it is precisely in this sense that this work can be said to have attained a higher level of literary merit than ‘Liaozhai Zhiyi’, which merely cynically exposes the reality of a corrupt society.

The Structure of ‘Yurim Oesa’

From its conception to its plot structure, ‘Yurim Oesa’ was crafted to expose the eternal fate of the Chinese intellectual class—a tragic destiny that inevitably ends in ruin due to self-contradiction. At first glance, the general plot of this work begins with the joys, sorrows, loves, and hates of those who worship the Eight Classics as if they were a religion, and proceeds in the following order: the aspirations and behaviors of pseudo-intellectuals; the appearance and lonely departure of sages; and the tragic endings of eccentric figures.
This clearly illustrates the inevitable trend of the Qing-era intellectual class being forced to move from a distorted “center” to the “periphery,” but in a broader sense, it is also a sober “dissection” of the current state of a fragile intellectual society that, beginning in the Pre-Qin period, has spent two thousand years constantly patching up the conflicts arising from its self-contradictions only to finally reach its limits.
In that sense, the 54 episodes—excluding the first episode, which serves as the “Prologue,” and the 56th episode, which serves as the “Epilogue” (regardless of whether Oh Gyeong-jae wrote them himself or not)—are nothing less than a display of all manner of pathological conditions and crumbling bodily tissues, dissected and laid out by a surgeon’s cold gaze and sharp scalpel.
It is precisely in this sense that, at least on the surface, ‘Yurim Oesa’ does not place much emphasis on a linear plot. Much like the preserved specimens on display in a “natural history museum,” Oh Gyeong-jae uses the technique of “literary visualization” to present the various organs of the organism known as intellectual society—along with the pathologies that are destroying them—in a form that is easy for the reader to examine.
According to research by scholars of the Saek-eun-pa school, most of the characters in this work are modeled after real people whom the author himself had seen, heard about, or associated with in his daily life. For example, Sun-mae is modeled after Nogeon-jeung, Beom-jin after Do-yong, Kwon Mul-yong after Si-gyeong, Ma Jeong after Pung-jo-tae, Gye-chu after Yi-myeon, Du Cheon after Oh Gyeong, Ji Gyun after Beon Myeong-jeong, Zhuang Shangzhi (莊尙志) is modeled after Zheng Zhengzhao, and Yu Yude (虞育德) is modeled after Wu Baoyuan, and so on. As is well known, O Gyeong-jae does not portray their characters and conduct exactly as they were, but rather adapts them as needed for the narrative.
Furthermore, the diverse array of characters depicted in each chapter and the anecdotes they weave together are arranged so that readers can sense a coherent narrative flow by examining individual episodes. In terms of plot structure, ‘Yurim Oesa’ combines the structure of ‘Water Margin’, in which individual anecdotes involving 108 heroes converge like the spokes of a wheel toward a single theme symbolized by “Liangshanbo,” with It can also be seen as a fusion of the structure of ‘Journey to the West’, in which 81 independent trials—like beads on a string—follow a winding, curvilinear path toward an intrinsic goal symbolized by the “Western Regions (西域).”
The narrative structure of ‘Yurim Oesa’ possesses independence, focus, and a linear flow.

Narrative Structure and the Depiction of Intellectual Society

Perhaps this narrative structure stems from the fundamental characteristics of Qing-dynasty intellectual society that Oh Gyeong-jae sought to depict. In reality, the boundary between negative figures—such as those who blindly follow the “Eight Classics” or pseudo-intellectuals—and positive figures—such as sages or eccentrics—is not clearly defined. The difference between them is similar to the relationship between a crude imitation and a genuine article that is excellent but unappreciated. Take the case of Yang Jizhong, for example: although he was unable to articulate bold and noble ideas for society and humanity, he was treated as a distinguished scholar by pseudo-intellectuals like the Nu brothers, who possessed a shallow perspective. Of course, due to fundamental differences in worldview and morality, conflicts arise between them, and severe clashes occur even within their own social circles.
However, what is important is the fact that they share a certain a priori homogeneity in that they are, after all, members of the intellectual class. Therefore, the external conflicts among them were inherently limited in their ability to escalate to an extreme catastrophe; rather, due to the essential nature of ancient Chinese intellectuals, the collapse of intellectual society proceeded on a highly individual and internal level of “self-reflection.” Such conflicts, which a priori tended toward internalization, inevitably led to a self-contradiction: while nurturing inner discontent, they rejected physical confrontation.
It was precisely to depict these subtle conflicts—externally cloaked in the pretext of propriety—and the ongoing process of collapse within the mental worlds of individual intellectuals amidst them that ‘Yurim Oesa’ adopted a unique narrative technique called “jutan” (gathering for discussion), in which the characters gather to converse. Furthermore, this narrative style itself served as satire targeting the nature of ancient intellectual society—a society that consumed only hollow discourse while lacking the practical capacity to bring about social change.

Narrative Style, Readership, and the Work’s Purpose

Oh Gyeong-jae was well-versed in traditional narrative forms such as historical biographies, letters, personal notes, and folktales; from a literati’s perspective, he distilled their strengths and sublimated them into a new narrative style. Consequently, while ‘Yurim Oesa’ borrows the chapter-and-episode format—beginning with “Therefore” and ending with “Please tune in for the next episode”—to weave its narrative in a vernacular style, it almost entirely excludes the numerous poems and lyrics conventionally inserted in traditional chapter-and-episode novels, adding only a concise four-line verse at the end of each chapter.
The narrative progresses primarily through dialogue among the characters; since most of them are intellectuals, the vocabulary used in their conversations strongly reflects the classical literary style characteristic of the ‘Jeon-go’. There are almost no action-packed scenes; only Jang Cheol-bi’s swindle (Chapter 12) and the exploits of “troubleshooter” Bong Myeong-gi (Chapter 52) contain slight elements of action. This static nature indicates that Oh Gyeong-jae’s target readership was not “people who listen for mere entertainment,” but rather “those who read and reflect based on a minimum level of cultural literacy.”
In reality, such readers were more familiar with classical Chinese prose than with the tradition of the “seolbu” (narrative ballads). In other words, in order to effectively convey the intellectual society depicted in his stories to those very intellectuals, Oh Gyeong-jae needed to develop a new narrative form capable of embodying both a refined level of “entertainment” and “meaning.”
This need was all the more urgent because the so-called “intellectuals” of the time were mired in intellectual shallowness caused by their narrow focus on classical texts.
Therefore, ‘Yurim Oesa’ is, at its core, a work focused less on entertainment and more on effective enlightenment and raising awareness of problematic realities. As a result, this work leans overtly toward literary tastes in its plot structure, vocabulary choices, and method of conveying themes. Thus, while it resembles a “seolbu” in form, it is not one; though it seeks to imbue individual characters’ anecdotes with the author’s worldview—as biographies typically do—it is not a dictionary but, as the title suggests, a work possessing the character of an “Oesa.”
It appears that Oh Gyeong-jae’s intent was conveyed to some extent even to readers of his time. A reader’s overall assessment of the second installment—stating that “it would be difficult to write this way without a deep understanding of the writing style of the ‘Shiji’”—highly praised the author’s historical and narrative capabilities. From this perspective, ‘Yurim Oesa’ was not a work viewed solely as a novel, at least from the standpoint of its own era.

Modern Reception and Reading Practices

When compared to the modern view of literature—which regards it as a system comprising “author-work-reader” and sees works as produced commodities—the context surrounding ‘Yurim Oesa’ during its time was somewhat different. Above all, since the first edition of this work was published after Oh Gyeong-jae’s death, he did not set out from the beginning to write a satirical novel in the modern sense. Once this point is clearly understood, one can also grasp why the Chinese distinguish between ‘Yurim Oesa’—the epitome of the prose tradition—and ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’—the epitome of the poetic tradition.
As a classic, ‘Yurim Oesa’ can be received in the modern era in various ways, transcending the boundaries between literature and scholarship. In terms of narrative technique, it can be understood as the embryonic form of a tradition that grew organically in the history of Chinese fiction until the emergence of full-fledged satirical and realist novels; in terms of its thematic focus, it can also be read as a philosophical work that fundamentally explores ontological questions of human existence. Furthermore, it serves as a valuable sociological source for understanding early Qing society. What is important is to fully acknowledge the diversity inherent in the work as a classic.
In one of his essays, Lu Xun wrote that the popularity of ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’ and ‘Water Margin’ in China stems from the fact that the spirit of those two works exists within society, and he asked rhetorically whether the literary ability of the author of ‘Yulin Waishi’ was truly inferior to that of the author of ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’. However, his comment that, since the world became filled with students studying abroad, this book has ceased to be either timeless or great, gives much food for thought. This partly suggests the possibility that ‘Yulin Wai Shi’ was undervalued within the literary concepts and theoretical frameworks newly acquired by these students. Furthermore, it is possible to interpret that the overseas students of Lu Xun’s era were, like Oh Gyeong-jae, indifferent to the problems of intellectual society, or that they prided themselves on being different from intellectuals of other eras. This is because the value of a text is inextricably linked to the reader’s sense of inquiry.
Above all, ‘Yurim Oesa’ allows us to vicariously experience the life of Oh Gyeong-jae, who devoted nearly a decade to this book amid frustration and suffering, without any tangible reward. This vicarious experience raises humanistic questions such as what “intellect” means in human life and what role narrative plays among the various ways of expressing a sense of inquiry—does narrative provide catharsis as an act in itself, or are the practical outcomes of that act what matter? Reflecting on these questions leads readers to reaffirm the necessity of awareness and action regarding “the here and now.”
However, there is one prerequisite: to engage in such an experiential journey through ‘Yurim Oesa’, readers must temporarily set aside the modern approach to reading fiction—that is, the method of reading a work from beginning to end by relying on the narrative’s suspense. On the surface, this work is a fragmented collection of various events arranged according to an internal order that is not readily apparent. However, since these fragments are condensed specimens refined through the author’s reflection and artistic processing, one must set aside haste and read slowly, savoring each passage to appreciate their value.
In particular, if you revisit the protagonists’ words and deeds while keeping in mind that they all represent significant aspects of Qing Dynasty intellectual society and that criticism and satire regarding them are woven throughout the entire work, you will be deeply moved by the “order within disorder” and the “bone within the words” that Oh Gyeong-jae has achieved.